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We left lots of undiscovered sapphires behind in Gem Mountain for other wandering tourists to discover, and we finally set a direct course for Yellowstone’s northern entrance. I was skeptical about finding a campground within the park, although it was midweek when we arrived, since it was the middle of summer and unseasonably warm. Fortunately, there are some campgrounds within the park that are first-come-first-served, and we stayed in one of those for two nights. And we also made reservations for another two nights in a reservation-only campground deeper into the park. During that time we explored the western portion of Yellowstone from north to south.

Most often, when stories trickle out about this beautiful National Park to my ears, the focus is on saving the bison or Old Faithful. So, I admit to you that I was completely unprepared for the brilliant colors, the skin-tingling steam, or the consuming aromas. My senses were totally engulfed, my eyes, ears, nose and skin soaked in a bath of delight. I have seen colorful paintings before, created by human hands, devised by finite minds. I have had my nose titillated by strong spices and repelled by overwhelming rancidity or all-consuming death. I have heard the mockingbird sing its ever-changing notes of flattery. My skin has taken in both searing pain and electrified pleasure.

But Yellowstone’s appeal to my senses was none of these. She reached out of the spiritual center of the earth with every sensual finger and created the transcendent, portrait of God. I did not touch the artist during our stay at Yellowstone, she touched me. I did not see her, she saw me. I did not hear her, she heard me.

I would have never guessed that I would come to venerate such a strong clash of opposites as pungent as sulphuric fumes, love-at-first-sight-blue water, fuming green crusts of earth, monstrous bison, and the heart-pounding reality that bears could tear your heart out while you slept in your bed. 

I will not write about my return to reality after visiting Yellowstone. It was a sad homecoming, best left out of the story. The world is huge, and my three-bedroom home seems uncomfortably outgrown now. Maybe that’s the message Yellowstone whispered into my ears to calm my fears so that I slept so well each night I laid in her arms.

We finally had to say goodbye to Idaho and cross the border into Montana. We made our destination Polson, on the southern end of Flathead Lake so that we could dabble a while in a dream of buying property there. We took a day to sigh over beautiful plots of land with gorgeous views and comfortably sparse neighbors.

The second day we took the kids to see Ratatouille in a quaint older building. The movie quite refreshed us from our long fast from the swift moving currents of high tech, and we launched out on the street invigorated, only to discover that the solid movie house had muffled all sounds of a quickly approaching storm. Wind gusts lifted the hairs on the back of our necks as we hustled to our truck.

An impulse to utilize the town’s Laundromat was quickly stifled as rain began pouring out of the black sky. We dreaded what we would find when we returned to our trailer, and we all moaned as we pulled up and watched our awning sailing high and strained above the trailer. Though the kids didn’t dare jump out of the cab of the truck, my husband and I both barked out for them to stay in until we called them. Somehow, miraculously, we stumbled and groped in the dark, in the rain and in the high winds to reel that awning in, but it fought us for freedom the whole way, stretching itself tight toward the heavens. It didn’t surprise me that when we were finished, the awning material bulged, unevenly rolled, but secure. We rushed the kids inside and shivered as we changed into dry clothes and turned up the volume on the DVD we watched to drown out the thunder that seemed cruelly loud inside the small trailer.

The next morning we contemplated driving up to Glacier National Park, but decided against it, deterred partially by time constraints and also the fact that we could not tow our trailer through. We opted instead to visit a sapphire mine in Philipsburg, Montana, which was a drive not out of our way, considering we were heading southward again to Yellowstone. We didn’t hold out high hopes after our disappointment with the opal mine experience, but we were actually pleasantly surprised. We actually got to get our hands and the fronts of our shirts muddy, and we brought home with us a small collection of rough sapphires. Gem Mountain not only has an area where they bring out piles of gravel from their mines for purchase, but they also have long troughs of water where you can screen and pan out the gravel and tables to slap it down for sorting. They also have a free campground for dry camping, with fire pits, but watch out for the cow pies!

The next part of our road trip took us to Idaho Falls, where we camped several nights and drove around, visiting various zoos, museums and other sights.

Coming from So Cal, and being raised around noisy traffic, dominating billboards, pushy people and nauseatingly populated cities, I ‘ve just got to say that Idaho is gorgeously modest and understated. From the barely visible farm houses set far off the main roads to the enormous stretches of land dotted with nothing but potato plants, and the tiny, almost non-existent (except for the giant potato out front) building in Blackfoot which publishes a brochure to draw traffic to its “Idaho Potato Expo” (which turns out to be a dinky museum/visitors center/photo-op that we accidentally drove past twice) to the equally diminutive and weather-worn (but internally fantastic) Shoshone-Bannock Indian, which we also accidentally drove right past.

On the other hand, we had more opportunities to teach our kids hands-on history lessons and visit zoos and museums (inexpensively, I might add) in Idaho than we would have, had we chosen to drive up the coast of our own state. We managed to drive out to Soda Springs to see a man-drilled geyser spout, long before we reached Yellowstone, learned about the Oregon-California Trail in a neat interactive museum in Montpelier and toured the inside of the spectacular Minnetonka Cave, as well as being able to visit a replica of Fort Hall.

The visitor’s center at the first rest stop you reach upon crossing the border of Utah into Idaho on Interstate 15 is actually open AND manned (womanned really) and she was very willing to highlight all the neat places a tourist would be interested in seeing in Southeastern Idaho. Had we not talked with her, I’m almost certain we would have never driven across miles of roads that seemed endlessly uninhabited except for the occasional lonely farmer and a few blink-and-you’ll-miss-’em towns, to find these places.

After leaving Idaho Falls, we moved our 18-foot Fun Finder to a campground at Lower Mesa Falls, Idaho. From there we were able to visit both the Upper and Lower Mesa Falls and we even made a trip to West Yellowstone for some brief souvenir shopping. West Yellowstone seems to capitalize on the tourism aspect of it’s being the most accessible point of entry from the West Coast. There is an IMAX theater showing, among other films, one about Yellowstone’s history, which, while I found slightly interesting, did not do the park justice, in my opinion. I am grateful that I did not view this film in West Yellowstone until we drove through again after seeing most of the western side of Yellowstone in person.

We also took a drive, quite a bit out of our way, to Spencer, Idaho, because we were informed there was an opal mine area there that we could pay to mine for our own rough opals. Turned out that they were not operating at the present time, but we were able to browse the store and learn a bit about how opals are mined. We returned to our campground with a nasty storm at our backs, a first taste of the sudden weather changes that can take place in this scarcely-tamed country.

Photos from our road trip can be viewed at http://s206.photobucket.com/albums/bb76/LybargerFamily/

I’ve not given up blogging. I’ve just returned from a three-week road trip through Utah, Idaho, Montana and Wyoming. Trust me when I say they could have left me on the side of the road in any of those states with a full canteen and a stick of beef jerky and I would have been utterly happy.

Our journey landed us the first night in Kanab, Utah where my father-in-law owns a custom home. This was a cheat camp night. We pulled our 18 foot Fun Finder into his giant barn and ran the air-conditioner all night, rent-free.

But the second night we turned up at Smith’s Trout Farm in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho. We parked our trailer on the largest stretch of green grass I’ve ever seen in my life. It stretched from the rolling hills on the West across a valley to some taller mountains on the East. Tiny ponds dotted the grass here and there and I doubt there was a trout in any of them, as not once did my husband pullout his fishing pole while we were there. We had no hook-ups and slept with the windows open and the smell of sweet grass floated in the window at night along with the sound of distant trains as they traversed the hillside.

The next day we went into Lava Hot Springs and discovered people of all ages tubing down the Portneuf River which was only 3 feet deep in most areas there. After some debate and countering butterflies in multiple family members tummies, we decided to give it a shot. We rented two double tubes and hesitantly jumped in and proceeded to float into a section of the river that stood virtually still. Someone gave us a good shove and we zoomed down some rapids and screamed with delight! We soon realized that we were going to have to do some steering to keep from drifting against rocks and tree limbs along the banks . My husband and I paddled our feet and free arm in the water while holding the two sets of tubes together with our other arms. Several times we bumped against others groups who were tubing along as well. The temperature in Lava Hot Springs was well into the 90’s, unseasonably warm , and the River kept quite busy, bathing and dousing, floating and cascading all the wilted tourists back to life.

About the third time down the River, just when all of us were getting the hang of this new activity, my daughter’s swim shoe accidentally fell off her foot. My husband had been the one jumping off at the exit point and pulling us to the shore, so he felt overly-confident that the river was shallow and slow all the way along. When I yelled at him that her shoe was floating about 10 feet behind us and that it would stay afloat until we got to the exit area this concept bounced right off his forehead and he plunged into the river just before we hit another rapid spot with lots of shallow rocks. I saw the shock and realization spread across his face just as the water splashed off my cheek, and his attention quickly turned from rescuing the shoe, to rescuing himself. I guess his toes and knees dragged across quite a few rocks and boulders as he struggled to gain a hold of the tube with his second hand, the other one never fully letting go during his daring plunge. As I reached down and grabbed the back of his swim shorts to haul his stupid ass back into the tube again, his feet flailed and both his own flip-flops flumped off his feet; one into my grasp and the other out with our daughter’s shoe, which was still floating along a bit behind us.

Just then, we were hurled down into the rapids, my husband barely seated aright again, if not uncomfortable, what with a wedgie up his ass and bleeding toes and knees. Perhaps he felt a bit like a defeated kid, or perhaps he had just swallowed too much water. Whatever it was, he began to yell out to fellow-tubers to grab the floating shoes. A man who sat on the bank did get a hold of my husband’s shoe and my husband urged him to attempt to throw it downriver to us as we were swept rapidly away from him. The man asked if we wanted him to keep it on the bank and I yelled out yes. My husband huffed in exasperation as the man obediently set the shoe down on the bank.

The escapade was all the more ridiculous considering the fact that all up and down the river we had seen singular shoes sitting at slow points along the river where by-standers had fished them out by the dozens during the day. Had he stayed in the tube, either my daughter’s shoe would have reached us moments after we jumped out at the exit point, or someone would have snatched it out and left it beside the river for us to claim.

And in fact, at the exit point some kind soul floated up to us and handed my whimpering and limping husband our daughter’s shoe.

Last week I took my first trip to Salt Lake City. I stayed at a hotel on North Temple and decided to stretch my legs and get a closer look at this city and it’s beautiful skyscrapers on Sunday to take some pictures. I was out maybe two hours. Two very interesting hours.

As I stood on a busy street corner an older gentleman pulled up to the stoplight and offered me a ride with him and his German Shepherd “roommate”.  As I declined, a slightly mentally disabled woman desperately in need of a dentist stepped up to the curb next to me and tried to strike up a conversation with me about how she had just walked nine blocks. I had this strange moment where she zoomed out of focus and the man standing behind her came into sharp view.

A zombie who could have come straight from the set of Dawn of the Dead, with deathly white, pasty skin and white hair plastered down on his head, face slack and vacant of intelligence stood there, rocking back and forth, slightly groaning and I had the distinct notion that his poor soul was dwelling in eternal torture. Finally, when I realized I had missed the green walking light and it was now flashing a red count-down number, I hustled across the intersection and left the poor travel-weary woman without a word of conversation. 

If I had been the superstitious type I would have probably taken this event as an evil omen and ended my walk. However, I continued, determined to get a few closer shots of the buildings rising up in the distance. I walked as far east on North Temple as I could, and reluctantly turned around when I realized that the road passes over a railroad track with no safe place for pedestrians to walk. On my return jaunt to my hotel room, much to my dismay, I was subsequently approached at least six times by men driving by in their vehicles and others waiting at bus stops as I passed.

I did not feel that I was dressed suggestively, wearing mid-thigh length shorts, a tight-fitting tie-die Tinker Bell t-shirt, tennis shoes, black leather purse and a camera. I thought I looked quite like a tourist from Southern California come straight from a day at Disneyland. As I walked along I had numerous men honk, pull over to the curb and yell, “Hey!”, make U-turns on the six-lane road and pull into driveways just behind me honking and yelling for my attention.

I do believe I could have earned my round-trip airline ticket costs, had I been so inclined. I say this not to brag, because I was frightened out of my mind all the while this was happening, but more as an exclamation of horror and disgust at my foolishness. I had suddenly been made quite aware that I had made a dangerous assumption we all make on occasion, where we think we know what to expect and rely heavily upon it in order to carry out our plans. I had blindly assumed that all men within the city would be and behave as Mormons which I had been accustomed to: acting with a strong moral conscience as if God were watching over their shoulders.  Although not a Mormon myself, I felt that being in “their” city would be much like walking in the presence of exceptionally saintly men. At the very least I assumed I would walk among them, unremarkable and invisible, as I often do in my own state.  Well, that was the soapy bubble that burst. 

As I pushed along at a faster and more deliberate clip, staring intently at business signs and cracks in the walls of buildings as I passed, I began to re-analyze the area I had walked through when I believed it was safe: older buildings and some kind of power plant, lots of fast food restaurants, the Statefair Park, lots of industrial business offices and goofy-looking hotels with cartoonish animals and fairytale-like creatures decorating the pool area. I did also recall seeing a bum lying in the shade of a tree outside of the Statefair Park with his head covered.

Ok, so now I registered the fact that the area had several cheap hotels and a bum. Other than this, I was dumbfounded. There was no evidence of graffiti, abandoned cars, unkempt lawns, or any other women “working” the streets. It seems possible that the less than savory males who attempted to approach me this day paid attention mainly because I was the only woman “brazen” enough to show myself on the sidewalk on a Sunday morning. All the “good” girls must have been attending church or temple. However, I was later informed by two Utah residents that this area is known for this type of activity. You could’ve fooled me if I’d not taken the footpaths. It made me think about something though: I wonder if there is a website anyone has created for women who travel alone that would inform them of such female-friendly information as streets better left untravelled?

One other factor I thought about briefly was my recent change in hair color, which you will recall from my posting entitled, “Open Mouth, Insert the Truth--Now Chew,” had me allegedly looking like an ugly, old woman according to my foot-in-his-mouth spouse. There were, after all, no other blonde pedestrians aside from me and the zombie. I chuckled at the thought of informing my husband that the “ugly, old woman” look seemed all the rage in this city full of obviously sexually-repressed men. It was a brief chuckle, punctuated by screeching tires and honking pickups.

I must say, those Utah men are terribly more friendly than this little ol’ lady from So. Cal. is accustomed to.

After all I wrote in Part One, I had the sense that it was incomplete. It’s too bad I haven’t had any females comment yet on that posting, to remind me that there are those times, though sometimes far less frequent than both genders would hope, when a woman’s orgasm is not only effortless, but seems to originate from a place where we don’t have to try at all. I suppose this place is called Reckless Abandon, and you will often see women capable of visiting that place in the beginnings of a relationship or at the point in an old one where they realize that life is not all about taking care of others before themselves. Or maybe it occurs when we have a moment where we feel completely safe to “let go” of all the extraneous stuff, and can’t help focusing on the sensations of our bodies.

My guess is that many will be gluing their eyes here to see if I have some magic formula as to how to make that happen. And I have to tell you that I have been wracking my brain all day trying to come up with the answer for you. Seriously. I personally don’t like either gender being in the dark about how to help the other attain a fulfilling sexual relationship. And frankly, I do not have a degree in Sexual Psychology; my major is English. What I have been writing here has been purely from my own experiences and life education. All comments and suggestions are welcome.

So, my answer to the burning question of how you get to the point where it is possible for your woman to attain an orgasm effortlessly is this: bring her to the point in your relationship where she feels completely safe to ask for and receive everything that she knows in her heart she deserves. Because if she feels she can do that, then she will be more likely to come to the bedroom fulfilled and clear of mind, as well as tuned into her needs and desires.

But, now, how does a man bring her to this point of feeling safe to ask and receive her heart’s desires? After all, guys just go out and get what they want. No one has to make them feel safe to do that. With women, it is quite a different thing. We are raised to be caretakers and taught to put others before ourselves. We really do benefit from, although, ladies, we should never deceive ourselves into believing that it is required to have, verbal and corporeal permission to have our needs put first instead of last. This may be a process, not a one-shot deal, where a man, through repeated acts of love, encourages, provides for and shows pleasure and approval in his woman getting exactly what she needs outside as well as inside the bedroom.

When a woman comes to the bedroom fulfilled and tuned in to her desires, she will be more likely to pick up the less obvious sensations of sexual pleasure that are offered her: the tingly feeling she gets when you whisper in her ear, the pleasant pressure that is placed on her uterus as you lay your head or abdomen against her navel, the discovery that one imminent climax spurs the other’s more feverishly, and most certainly she will be more likely to hear and accept the tender expressions of love and desire that you speak to her there. And as she does this, her focus will be directed toward welcoming these sensations, anticipating each wave and letting go of all thoughts that would otherwise crowd out these sensations from her consciousness, with the result hopefully being that her climax will catch her quite suddenly and effortlessly.

Some people just have to be told things extremely bluntly. Cause and effect have to be spelled out, but then sometimes they don’t get it anyway. Sometimes they just have to feel the cast iron pan as it crushes the left side of their skulls.

I recently came home from a long-overdue visit to the hairdresser, jazzed about how sassy and sexy I looked. I am a natural dirty-blonde, more dirt than blonde, and it took three hours to get the color and cut just right. God bless my neighbor/hairdresser who treats me like a queen every time I sit down in her salon chair. I decided to go for short and as blonde as she could get me without bleaching.

I walked in my house feeling a bit like a marvelous cross between Marilyn Monroe and Sharon Osbourne. My louse, I mean s-p-o-u-s-e of 16 years rushed to the door to meet me. I opened my eyes wide, stuck out my tongue like I was the newest member of Kiss and flipped my hands up the back of my head, letting out a little giggle of glee (it might help to know I’m going through sort of a mid-life crisis these days.)

The next thing I heard was his steep gasp followed by, “How could you cut your hair like that? Do you know how ugly that looks? You look like an old woman with your hair like that!”

I informed him quite bluntly that I had my hair cut and colored to please myself, not him, and that he was cutting off his nose to spite his face by being so rude to me.

His ranting went on until he could stand it no more and he went for a walk. By evening time, I suppose his blood-pressure had settled to a simmer again (or perhaps he had finally remembered that I had lately been talking about leaving him for good this time) and I came in from my blogging, exhausted and ready for bed. He met me in the bedroom and when he slid off his jeans I could see that he had forgotten what he had said earlier and was ready for some action. He made his way over to my side of the bed and kissed my neck, his member pressing into my thigh. He tried to push me back on the bed.

That’s when I let him have the old frying pan on the head: I said, “Oh, you mean you actually want to fuck an ugly, old lady?!”

I could almost hear him bleat.

No nonsense noni

noel nelly jelly jolly jibberish gibberishes

fobberishness slobberish snobbery topography tomography biography

intolerance becomes simple gibberishes and follishness eating the fishery

stamping out your biography and taking it the way that you can until it seems no more faking

all the wonderment and sticking fingers right down your consciousness and gagging up the bullshit smelling truth

even when it is alright it’s never really all alright and taking in the pieces one by one seems to only fix your mind on simple things like macaroni stuck to the wall

fix the cut but don’t sew it shut cuz just might need it later for blood-letting

suckers walk right up to you with mouths wide open and tucked shirt with shoe laces white as snow

snow up the job tear it down and lay it out

don’t pull none of that on me cuz I’m too smart for fooling one more time

one last chance is not gonna ever last

its amazing how you think you reach Nirvana when all you reached was just not-hell and take or leave it that’s all I gotta give and ain’t gonna give nothing at all

Guys, let me ask you something. Suppose I told you to take a pencil and place it between your baby toe and the one next to it on your non-dominate foot (as if you were going to write with it), and then I told you to squeeze the pencil repeatedly, and at longer and longer intervals hold the flex tight. Now imagine that I promised you that just at the last moment when you think that you can’t squeeze the pencil anymore that you would experience an orgasm totally different from, and perhaps far better than the ones you have accustomed yourselves to over the years. How easy do you think it would be to achieve this orgasm? How much focus would you have to put into your two smallest, weakest toes in order to attain this promised pleasure? Do you think that you would be easily distracted from flexing and releasing these muscles? How often would you be persuaded into trying this trick?

Let me put it another way. Imagine for a moment that going to the gym and pumping iron could produce an orgasm for you guys. Suppose, that if you lay down on the bench and start bench pressing a really heavy amount of weight over and over again, eventually, when you are just about to the point of exhaustion, and it takes many agonizing seconds to fully extend that weight one final time, all of a sudden, something miraculous happens: your arms feel amazingly powerful and you are startled to discover that they are now pressing the weight up and down of their own accord, with incredible ease. As a matter of fact, the flexing is now involuntary. Not only this, but the feeling in your arms as they flex up and down is the most incredible and pleasurable feeling you’ve ever known.

Ok, so now you’ve experienced this once, and of course, you will want to repeat it. However, the next time you go to the gym you are with your girlfriend or wife. This time you want to share the experience with her, but she wants to talk to you while you pump iron. You are there to work out, with the goal of having this awesome feeling again, with her in your presence. But she keeps distracting you with stories about her work, keeps pointing out the fact that your stomach is flabby, and tickles you occasionally and asks why your aren't laughing. She doesn’t understand that in order for you to have this wonderful experience, you have to focus all your attention and push yourself to the limit. To make things even more difficult, she has been getting on your nerves all day, doing some little thing that reminds you of someone that you’d rather forget.

The ideal weightlifting partner would be someone who is there to encourage you, talking you through the most grueling part of the workout with words that help you maintain your concentration and remind you of your goal. They would also be someone whom you trust and whose presence lifts your mood so that you can maintain your positive attitude about achieving your goal. Your girlfriend is doing exactly the opposite.

What I’m trying to make clear here is the incredible feat that is achieved each time a woman has an orgasm. I can think of no better explanation for the concentration level it takes to attain an orgasm as a female than weightlifting. While foreplay between a man and a woman serve as the ‘promise’ of an awesome finale, most all women know that it is a matter of sheer physical discipline and endurance, much like weightlifting for a guy, to reach it. Some very small muscles do an extraordinary amount of work.

It is not a mere matter of tickling a sensitive area of a woman’s body to cause her to orgasm. This tickling stimulates her to contract the muscles of her vagina . Each time she contracts these muscles can be equated to one rep on the bench press in my analogy. The more times she contracts these muscles and the longer she holds them tight, the more stimulus she provides to the sensitive pelvic floor and g-spot. However, the more she contracts these muscles the more exhausted they become and the more difficult it is to do another “rep.” Eventually, if she provides enough stimulus to these sensitive areas, as well as the clitoris, the miraculous happens and these muscles begin to contract all on there own, causing a rush of pleasurable sensations and release which is what we call an orgasm. But, just as a guy at the gym needs a weightlifting partner whom he trusts, who helps maintain his morale and who encourages him through the difficult task of focusing all his attention on reaching his goal through a very challenging workout, a woman needs a sexual partner who can do the same for her.

Add to this one other factor, that women tend to be compulsive multi-taskers. Women are hardly ever doing just one thing. It may look this way, but this is only because we make multi-tasking look so natural. However, being able to multi-task makes focusing on these muscle contractions during sex longe enough to achieve and orgasm exceptionally challenging. As much as a good weightlifting partner benefits you guys in the weight room, it is much more essential that a woman has a sexual partner who understands the challenge it is for her to maintain her focus on the goal, and takes the time to learn what he can do to help her stay focused. If you are a creative writer you might know that the more senses you appeal to in your writing, the more real your stories become for the reader. This concept can be applied in the bedroom as well. The more of your partner’s senses you can stimulate with the reality of what you are doing, the more focused and real it will be for her, and the less her mind will tend to wander to other things.

But the responsibility of helping a woman focus is not limited to the bedroom, because, like it or not, everything that happens outside the bedroom follows you in there when it’s time to play. Everything! However much she loves you and wants to share this intimate act with you, what it boils down to when achieving her orgasm is sheer willpower to keep flexing these muscles and focusing her attention on the exciting sights, smells, sounds and feelings involved in sexual intercourse. If there are unresolved issues that follow you into the bedroom, or the day was particularly exhausting for her, these things are definitely going to keep popping up in her head and make it more difficult for her to even desire to try to "workout" her vaginal muscles.

To recap, the most important things to remember in helping a woman achieve an orgasm are clearing up unresolved issues before entering the bedroom, developing an appreciation for the amount of strength and focus it takes a woman to reach orgasm, understanding your woman’s need to focus on physically mastering control over the vaginal muscles, providing her with sensual stimulation in as many different ways to make her feel the reality of your love, caring and desire for her, and providing her with encouragement when her confidence wavers and as her muscles begin to tire out.

I suppose I should make at least one post on writer’s block, just so I can say that the title for the blog is appropriate, huh? Getting over writer’s block is all about letting the creative energies flow unabated. And writers block is caused, in my opinion, when we let other things dam up our creativity. I get my best inspirations and creative ideas from anomalies that occur during my day, things that stick out among the mundane rituals and cause my mind to switch to a chain of thoughts that become more and more creative, as I allow the anomaly to serve as permission to my conscious mind to think in the abstract.

So, here are some ideas for tearing down the dam and letting the creative juices flow, but, in essence, I think that a writer has to get used to playing and being silly: with objects, ideas, people, themselves, words, gestures, rituals, etc.

• Hand write a letter using your non-dominate hand to the last person you talked to. (No need to send it unless you want to make them think you’ve had a stroke, though)
• Do something you haven’t done since you were a kid like play hopscotch, climb up in a tree and sit on a limb, or dig a tunnel in the dirt outside and drive a car through it (a Hot Wheels car, not your Honda)
• Study something from nature in great detail and up as close as possible. Spend several minutes admiring the colors, shapes, sounds, smells, textures, and other details . Then step back and take it all in again and see how it really “fits” into the world around it. Admire how it has made it’s place and serves a function.
• Lay down on the ground and look up at something, I.e.: the ceiling, the sky, a person standing over you.
• Lay down in a pile of leaves.
• Stand up while writing.
• Take a drive to a place you’ve never been.
• Create lists of things, including a list of lists to create. Also include a list of “What If” questions, I.e.: what if the sky was green and the grass was blue?”
• Sit down in an interesting place and start writing, I.e: a closet, at the bottom of an empty pool or bathtub, against your front door, in your child’s bed, on a trampoline, on the tailgate of a truck, under the kitchen table, etc. This one may not be good for extensive periods of time, but it might help get the floodgates open.
• Write the words vertically down the page instead of horizontally across it
• Try writing with no capitalization, or perhaps no punctuation.
• Read a page from a book entirely backwards or upside-down
• Walk around a room pointing to various objects and call them something other than what they really are, I.e.: point to a blender and call it a bed (however, try to avoid pointing at your family members during this exercise as you may find yourself in over your head if you are really “letting go.”)
• Pick an object and describe it as if you were talking to someone who was blind and had never seen the object before.
• Create a song from a paragraph you’ve written or read.
• Write what you’ve already written from the opposite perspective.
• Tape record a conversation you have with your dog, cat or other pet and then listen to it.
• Bare your feet and subject them to different textures, I.e: set them on sandpaper, an old throw rug, marbles, grass, noodles, in ice or warm water, loosely wrap them in plastic wrap, squish them into Playdough, weave yarn between the toes.
• Create your own unique dance moves.

Let it be known that I am just as likely to point the way to Christ as I am to the point the way to my clitoris. Because of this, I chose the topic of God and sex today for my blog prompt.

However, while reading my blog you will soon find that I am not a stuffed-shirt, Bible-thumping Christian. As a matter of fact, you might hear many choice words proceed from the fingertips of this writer as you browse, which may repulse, dismay, shock or annoy you. And I say, that’s ok. I’m not writing here to please a pastor or to feed the sheep nourishing, biblical colostrum, and I will probably most often write on topics which will draw mainly base and obsessive-compulsive masturbators to my posts on Google and Yahoo searches, due to the very fact that I love writing about, thinking about, studying about and involving myself in sex in all her glorious forms and expressions.

Nevertheless, I hope that sooner or later it will occur to readers that there is more to my writing than the mere intent of titillating the masses. I warn you, quite fairly here, that there is plenty of sweet pollen dancing on the tip of this carnivorous flower. My intent is to lure you, quite unaware, into my pleasure palace, and just when you think you have had your fill of bliss, my hope is that you will suddenly, and almost imperceptibly be enlightened.

I think that if I had to pick one thing that I most appreciate about God, it would be that He is the Master of intricate and lovely details. And I believe that if Man truly desires to come to know Him, it would serve him well to first come to know Woman, and I mean by this, for man to seek with all his energies to know and appreciate how the tiniest details of a woman have been fashioned by the Master Craftsman.

That is, if we accept that God is the Great I Am, God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, God of the Jews, God our Father, God of all creation, God of every hair on our heads, and God of every cell and DNA strand, then He, too, is God of the clitoris, God of the scrotum, God of sex, God of procreation, God of the mouth, vagina and rectum.

I introduce this idea because I saw an article yesterday which dispels the myth of the clitoris (that holy grail which for centuries men have been either frustrated by or have been frantically searching for) as being a tiny bump or button. In fact, according to the article, the clitoris rivals the penis in size! Have a look for yourself, and men, don‘t miss the diagram:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/5013866.stm

Just today I ran across this article posted in April of this year in the New York Times about a experimental technique for gallbladder surgery which proposes an incision in the vagina instead of the normal three small incisions in the abdomen for laparoscopic surgery. 

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/20/health/20surgery.html?ex=1181880000&en=b52e4b39a89cab26&ei=5070

And I thought, yow! As if it isn’t difficult enough that women have to give birth to living, breathing adorable children through this sacred chasm we are blessed with, but now doctors are proposing that the vagina is a perfect alternative location for incisions to remove diseased organs which are no longer useful to us.

The reasoning the doctors stated for using this alternative method is because they report that the vagina is less sensitive than abdominal muscles and the surgery would eliminate the external scarring that is present with the traditional laparoscopic incisions.

What? I for one do not have an abdomen that is sensitive enough to cause me to orgasm by having it rubbed or ejaculated upon. I think it is worth noting that the doctor who performed this first ever surgery in the U.S. was a man! I would assume that he does not have a vagina to represent in the matter. I would also speculate that the male-dominated medical profession sees the 66-year old woman who received the procedure as a perfect guinea pig for this experimental procedure due to her age. This poor woman not only had to endure the experimental one-inch incision in her vagina but she also had to endure the three routine laparoscopic incisions on her abdomen as well, “just in case,“ so she was unable to appreciate the benefits that the new procedure has to offer.

So that the men who read this don’t think that I am being too biased in my opinion here, I might add that that gender which is not lucky enough to have an insensible vagina, and wants an alternative to the routine abdominal incisions, has to resort to having their gallbladder removed through their rectum!

The article states that U.S. doctors became interested in using “natural openings of the body” for minor surgeries after a video of another barbaric surgery done in India was publicized showing a woman having her appendix surgically removed through her mouth.

Excuse me while I cough up a lung.

Thanks.

God, oh, uh, well, I've never made a public speech before, so I'm a bit nervous.  Pardon me if I perspire a little. 

So, I'm Vagina.  And I am coming out today to talk about how my body has been ignoring me lately. I thought maybe making a public appearance and getting totally naked with you might help.  To be honest with you, right now I'm a little confused.  For the last 30 years  my body has pretty much been following me around and letting me take the show.  The least mention of a sexual reference would have sent me into overdrive.  The blood would induce a purple hue to my instantaneously swollen lips.  I would feel involuntary urges to repeatedly tighten up and relax, and my insides would repond by producing copious amounts of warm juice that would trickle out and moisten my lips.  And, consequently, my body would listen to my discomfort and do whatever it took to help me feel better again.  I've gotten used to being the boss, directing my body in various activities of orgasm and release. My body had been fairly indiscriminate about the type of stimulus it took to rev me up.  Any innuendo, joke, gender or facsimile of human flesh with sexual reference would have done the trick.

But lately my body has decided on her own, without my consent, to be more discriminating about the things she will allow to stimulate me and turn me on.  And to be honest, she has been saying, "Shut up, Vagina!" alot lately.  She has this crazy idea about desiring intellectual conversations and more well-rounded people to stimulate me instead of the usual porn flick or dirty joke told by a blue-collar high-school drop-out.  Orgasms used to be fast and fun, but frankly, now they are such a drag!  Since the intellectual crowd seems to be in short supply around these parts, my future activities seem very uncertain.

Well, I can see her coming to pull the curtain down on me again.  I don't know when I'll get another chance to make a public appearance so, thank you for the opportunity for these lips to speak out.

So, let me throw out The Editor in my head.  I'm gonna get out a thick coil of rope and tie her up really tight.  Ok, let's toss around ideas, now that the enemy is gone.

Things You Dont' Want to Find on the Bottom of Your Shoes

• gum
• dog crap
• Torn page from a porn mag stuck to the gum on the bottom of your shoe
• Toilet paper
• Nail
• Monocle
• Old contact
• Blood
• Vomit
• Guts
• Grease
• Secret Phone

Things You Wish Were Stuck on the Bottom of your Shoe

• Rockets
• Wheels
• Money
• The face of your enemy
• PIN number/Combination number
• Clouds
• Garden